


a bedtime story for the end of the world

by summerofspock



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ficlets, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Tags On Individual Chapters, additional ships and character tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26086729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: a collection of TMA ficlets for TMA hurt/comfort week on Tumblr!1. Scottish Safehouse2. Supermarket Coworkers AU (Tim/Sasha)3. Firefighter AU meetcute (Jon/Martin)4...
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 34
Kudos: 119





	1. Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> title of the collection is from "The Performance of Becoming Human" a poem by Daniel Borzutzky
> 
> this chapter prompt is: pretend/shakey hands/self-worth issues. I tried to work them all in!
> 
> Tags: sex repulsion, internalized aphobia, hurt/comfort, scottish safehouse period

_this is how I learned to kiss, from studying this scene, and I remember quoting the hands, the eyes, the lips -- Broken Testimony_ by Daniel Borzutsky

**

Jon is fine. As fine as he can be given the hunger pangs that don't so much radiate from his belly but from his eyes. An ache like a migraine burrowing down his throat, taking root in his heart.

But he is here. He is alive. He is with Martin who fusses over him with tea and blankets and they haven't kissed but Jon Knows Martin wants to. The same way he Knows that Martin looks at him with a different hunger. A hunger Jon will never understand. A hunger Jon is beginning to accept he will submit himself to if Martin ever asks.

Because this is it for Jon. He knows it. Lowercase k. The sort of knowing that curls inside him like a contented cat, like the steam from a perfectly brewed cup of tea, like the smoke from the fireplace as it swirls up and out the chimney. Jon loves Martin. He loves Martin in a way he has never loved anything before. In a desperate, hold it in your hands so delicately for fear of breaking it, heart racing, earth shifting way. And Jon won't ruin it. There is the barest equilibrium between them in this small cottage surrounded by overgrown grass. This tiny corner of the world atop a hill.

Jon will not say no to Martin. He will not risk Martin leaving the only place Jon has ever felt at home.

They kiss for the first time for no reason in particular. Jon has set aside the book he was reading aloud for evening entertainment— _I like the sound of your voice, Jon_ —and has stood to say goodnight, to take himself off to his bedroom, His very separate bedroom, when Martin catches his hand and pulls him close.

The kiss itself is awkward at first. Their glasses bump but Martin, clearly more experienced, readjusts and then it's good, soft in a way Jon hasn't felt anything be soft in a long time. And they are just kissing in the living room, the fire long burnt down, his hands fisted in Martin's jumper.

And then Martin slips his tongue into Jon’s mouth and Jon has to push down a wave of discomfort, pretending everything is just as good as it was moments ago. Martin makes a sharp sound against his mouth that goes a long way to helping Jon forget how absolutely disgusting this is, how his stomach is turning, the barely-there thrum of arousal entirely washed away. 

Martin somehow maneuvers them onto the couch, pulling Jon into his lap. Jon follows because that's the done thing. Martin is hard in his trousers and it sends another crashing sense of harsh reality into Jon. He doesn't do this. Not with anyone. Sometimes when he's alone he thinks he might like it if he were in the right mood with a person he trusts, who he loves. But that mood is not now. Even if he trusts Martin more than anything.

Martin's hands are warm and soft and guiding on his hips and Jon desperately wants to like it but they are kissing again and there are tongues. He tries. He does. He doesn't want to be broken in this other way. This human way. He's already a monster and somehow Martin is with him regardless. But this?

Jon is terrified this will be the thing that drives him away.

With shaking hands, Jon reaches between them and rucks up Martin's jumper, only.to find he's wearing a white t-shirt beneath. Jon can feel the heat of his skin through it, grounding. It's nice and under other circumstances (holding each other in bed, a slow morning, trading lazy shallow kisses) Jon thinks the feel of Martin’s soft belly would bring on the low fizzle of heat he'd felt before when Martin had started to kiss him more deeply.

The shake in his hands grows worse and he tries to still them as he tugs at the undershirt as well. Wide hands grasp his wrists and he realizes his whole body is shaking. 

Martin pulls away and a new fear threads its way through Jon’s heart. 

"Jon?" His voice is soft and Jon realizes he has squeezed his own eyes shut as tight as they will go. He opens them.

Martin's gaze is as soft as that single word. Concerned. In love. Jon sees it. Knows it. And knows it. Both cases. Both ways.

“You don’t like this, do you?” Martin says more than asks, blunt nose scrunching up adorably. Everything he does is adorable because Jon adores him.

“It’s fine,” Jon says hurriedly, not answering the question. “Let’s keep going.”

He runs his hand up under Martin’s shirt, feels the growing heat of the skin of his stomach, his chest. “I Know you want this.”

Martin’s hands tighten on his hips. His fingers have just dipped under the hem of his shirt and they are distractingly hot on Jon’s bare skin. Then his hands move away, sliding up his back, one to cup the back of his head and the other wide between his scapulae as he pulls Jon against his chest, tucking him close.

“Jon, I love you.”

His breath hitches in his throat, caught in the web of fear that makes him want to pull away, to push Martin down on the couch and give him what he wants.

“Whatever way that looks. Separate bedrooms. Kissing. No kissing. Shagging like maniacs or whatever.” Martin’s breath tickles the hair on the top of Jon’s head as he brushes his fingers through the fuzz at the nape of his neck. “I love you and I don’t want you to pretend you like something you don’t.”

Jon takes a deep breath. It’s filled with the scent of detergent and earl grey and tinged with the subtle-Martin smell than Jon can’t get enough of now that Martin is always near. “I want you to be happy,” he confesses.

“I am happy. You’re here.”

Jon rests his head on Martin’s shoulder and that night, they share a bedroom for the first time, feet tangled together, waking up to the cool sunshine just to hold each other because they can. Because they love each other. Because they are safe.


	2. Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's prompts are: injury, confession, fear. Again I tried to work them all in because I am an overachiever.
> 
> Tags for today are: Tim/Sasha, Supermarket coworkers AU, pining, blood CW, minor injury CW

_It’s not that I am translucent // It’s that you cannot know you need something if you do not know it is missing_ \-- from Let Light Shine out of Darkness by Daniel Borzutsky

**

"Ah, shit," Tim says just before the step stool gives out from under him. He should have known better than to use the slightly twisty stool that usually molders in the corner of the stock room, but the more reliable stool had disappeared off somewhere and Tim needed to restock the beans before clocking out.

His fall isn't too bad really, his arse takes the brunt of it, but it does knock the wind from him and in his effort to catch himself, he casts out to grab something and ends up grabbing the handle which he should know better than to grab because it has that one spindly screw that slices open his palm.

"Fucking shit," he swears, snapping his hand back against his chest at the flare of pain.

"Tim, what happened—" of course, it's Sasha to appear at the end of the aisle. Not Martin who would understand his clumsiness by virtue of probably having done the exact same thing, but Sasha who had told him earlier that she is very excited for her date with some bloke from Tinder. Sasha who is all dolled up at the end of the aisle. Who has clearly changed in the break room after her shift. Lipstick bright, curls pulled back into a ponytail.

Tim remembers the feel of her mouth under his, the way her hair felt as he cradled her head in his hand. Before he fucked it all up.

Before he made it seem like he didn't care. He's really good at that.

"Hey Sasha, hot date?" he asks with a grin, pretending he's not sitting on his arse in the middle of the canned food aisle bleeding from his palm.

Sasha rolls her eyes. "Get up, you idiot."

“I’m fine,” he says, all bravado as he rolls to his feet, still clutching his hand to his apron. His palm is slick and when he looks down, there is definitely some drippage which is not a good sign.

Ignoring him, Sasha tugs on his elbow and pulls him back towards the breakroom where she unceremoniously pushes him into a chair with what has to be more force than necessary.

“Kinky,” he says, which earns him a wap to the arm.

“I know there’s a first aid kit somewhere,” Sasha mumbles to herself as she digs through the cabinets, finally unearthing an old tin kit under the sink. She does look nice for the evening. A yellow dress that makes her dark skin even darker. Makes her brown eyes even warmer.

Tim’s probably in love with her.

When she comes back to him, he uncurls his fist and she grimaces. The cut really isn’t that bad and the bleeding has slowed, though his whole palm, every single line and curve is stained with the rusty drying blood. 

“Gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose, but she takes his hand in hers. Sasha has always been larger than Tim. About his height and simply bigger, rounder about the hips and waist. But her hands are small, nails neatly trimmed and painted a delicate seashell pink. 

Tim’s pulse flutters in his wrist and he wonders if Sasha can feel it. That would be embarrassing. _Gosh, Sasha, thanks for treating my stupid cut, I’m in love with you, now go snog some guy you met on Tinder. Toodles!_

But Tim’s big mouth always gets the better of him and as Sasha dabs away the dried blood with hydrogen peroxide, he says, “You look nice tonight.”

Sasha’s hand pauses in it’s delicate movements, her other hand tightening almost imperceptibly where she is using it to steady his wrist. Her mouth quirks. “Well, don’t get any blood on my dress, Stoker.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Now, if blood somehow _gets_ on your dress, I’d say that’s your fault since you’re sort of in charge of the blood situation—”

Sasha heaves a long suffering sigh and tosses a clean cotton ball in his face. 

What had he said the morning after they’d gone to bed together? Best not ruin their friendship?

What he’d meant was— I’ve never felt this way about anyone and I’m terrified. Sex? Sex is easy but I can’t feel like this. Because if I do and you leave, I think I’ll shake apart.

Sasha dabs some antibiotic ointment onto the cut— disconcertingly small after all that blood— and fishes in the box for a plaster.

“Sasha,” Tim says and it’s serious. He doesn’t do serious, but fuck, he’s doing serious. It’s a bike without breaks, it’s falling down a hill, it’s— 

Sasha blinks at him, pauses, wide brown eyes, waiting.

“Would you get dinner with me?”

Sasha drops the plaster in her hand and it flutters to the ground without a single sound. “What?”

“I should have asked,” Tim says. His uninjured hand flexes on his blood-stained apron. “After. You’re—Sasha.”

“I’m Sasha?” Sasha repeats.

“Yeah,” Tim says, failing to find anything better to explain himself. Because she is Sasha. And that means everything.

“I have a date.”

“I know. I’m not asking you not to go. I’m just asking...maybe, sometime after, you go on a date with me.”

Sasha purses her lips and plucks a second plaster from the box, unwrapping it slowly before taking Tim’s hand back into hers. Carefully, she smooths the bandage over the cut, fingers lingering just beneath Tim’s palm. She taps his wrist twice and curls his fingers down.

“Alright,” she says, not releasing his hand. She gives him a shy smile.

In comparison, Tim’s smile must look idiotic. “Alright?”

She scowls. “Don’t be too smug about it.”

“I’m never smug,” he says.’

Sasha rolls her eyes and Tim is dead certain he is in love with her.


	3. Overwhelmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late because I've had a mushy brain migraine day but im feeling alright and wanted to write something so ficlet time it was! Also typed on my phone so apologies for typos!
> 
> Tags: meet cute, human au, firefighter!martin, injury, fire, mentions of property damage
> 
> Prompts today are: sickfic, misunderstanding, and overwhelmed and I barely worked 2 in if you squint a little
> 
> Totally inspired by silver's [fill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127337). I'd been batting around a firefighter AU and then I read that and absolutely had to write this.

_On the other hand, it is absolutely my fault that my life is so fucking miserable--_ Memories of my Overdevelopment by Daniel Borzutzky

\---

The first thing Jon notices when he wakes up is that the man leaning over him is big. Not muscly. Just big. Broad. Probably tall too but Jon cant tell because he's currently kneeling beside Jon with one hand curled around Jon's forearm with what appears to be concern. He's got floppy ginger hair that's slightly matted with sweat like maybe it was stuck down by a hat or something and so many freckles on his nose that Jon, at first, thinks his face is dirty.

The man is also wearing a firefighter's uniform. Which does not bode well for the situation. 

Then Jon notices he is laying on concrete and that the man in front of him is also holding his cat. Albeit his cat wrapped in a blanket. Jon lurches up and regrets it as the blood rushes to his head. He slaps his hand to his forehead and groans.

"Oh, don't--hold on," the man says, voice unusually soft for someone of his size. He steadies Jon with his hands and it's only then that Jon notices everything else that is happening. There is an ambulance,

\--no, _two_ ambulances by the curb and a fire engine besides. The emergency lights flash as people flood out of his apartment building and he sees someone coughing being led to one of the ambulances by someone in EMS gear. 

There is smoke everywhere but Jon doesn't see flames.

"What's going on?" Jon asks, which is a stupid question. It's easy enough to put together.

Gertrude jumps out of the man's hold and lands in Jon's lap, mrowing in distress.

"A fire on the first floor," the man explains. Jon recognizes the blanket that had been holding Gertrude. It had been on his sofa.

"The flat below yours actually," the man says with an apologetic smile. Something about him is boyish and soothing and if Jon weren't realizing the slight burn in his lungs is probably smoke inhalation and that his apartment is probably damaged beyond repair he'd probably be cranky about how much he likes that smile. He thinks it's cute. 

He will set aside some time to roll his eyes at himself later.

"I was asleep," Jon says after a beat.

The man looks sheepish. "We checked above the flat first. You know, smoke rising and everything. And you didn't wake up when we came in." 

Of course Jon hadn't woken up. He'd been working for 36 hours straight and had taken a sleeping pill. Wild dogs nibbling at his toes wouldn't have woken him.

"We thought you were affected by the smoke so I carried you and the cat out and then you kicked me and started talking so I put you down here."

"I kicked you," Jon repeats.

The man laughs awkwardly and rubs at his side. Presumably where Jon kicked him. "Oh, I've had worse."

"Right," Jon says slowly. "Sorry. And thank you. And Gertrude thanks you as well," he adds, running his hand down Gertrude's back where she is making disgruntled biscuits on his thigh.

The man smiles again. A bit brighter. "Well, Gertrude is very welcome," he says. "The people worse off are with EMS but you should get checked too."

He stands and Jon realizes he was right. The man is big. Huge in fact. Jon isn't short or anything but this man will have him by at least a head. Why that makes his face heat up he has no idea.

"I'm Martin, by the way," the man says as he offers a hand to help Jon stand. Jon takes it, holding Gertrude in his elbow as he levers himself to his feet. Martin bears his weight easily. Which shouldn't be surprising since Martin literally carried him out here.

"Jon," he responds. "Jonathan Sims."

"Nice to meet you, Jon," Martin says, grin going a bit lopsided before disappearing entirely. "Oh, not that it's nice-- under the circumstances...I just mean--"

"I know what you mean," Jon says, maneuvering Gertrude to a more comfortable position in his arms so she will stop squirming. "And thank you. Again. God, what an awful day," he says more to Gertrude than to Martin, expecting the firefighter to leave. "What am I supposed to do now? A hotel?"

"Erm."

Jon's head snaps up and Martin is still standing there awkwardly. 

"I've been through this a fair bit," Martin says tentatively. "Would it be helpful if i walked you through it?"

Jons shoulders sag. He currently only has his smoky white t-shirt and pajama bottoms and whatever is left undamaged in his flat which probably smells like smoke as well. "Martin," Jon says, voice awash with more relief than he is capable of suppressing. "That would be amazing."


End file.
